


Kill Yourself

by agosu



Category: Haikyuu!!, ハイキュー!!
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Post-Time Skip, Suicide Imagery, change symbolism, no one actually dies, some hurt, suicide comparison, uhhhhh ex boyfriend hits reader on a whim, unnamed ex boyfriend idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29106921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agosu/pseuds/agosu
Summary: "What do I do now?""Kill yourself," he answers, "Cut him off, cut your hair, cut your throat."
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Reader
Kudos: 18





	1. Crying in the rain is almost like wearing a mask; at the end of the day, we're just a drop of water in the sea

**Eyes burning with** unshed tears—tears she's too proud to allow to flow, but they undeniably exist in this disastrous whirlpool of emotions, swallowing and wrecking even the smallest of sprouts before it can bloom. She had it coming; she _knew_ it was coming. People enjoy their nonsense babbling, spitting out precipitate _I love you's_ to anyone with a mask of decency, covering their eyes and ears and mouth with rose-colored wax so as to pretend love exists for a little longer. _Love is blind,_ [Name] has heard her entire life, and she wasn't a believer until experience taught her differently.

Dates spent staring at his phone, brimming affection only for himself, hours wasted looking at him in front of a mirror because he only sees his own face. It simmered, it bubbled, it boiled, it exploded; carving crescents into the flesh of her palms, [Name] demanded a sensible conversation that would either fix their relationship or tear skin off her hands so she would let go of the rope. The flags existed, flowing in the vicious winds of a violent hurricane, rainfall pelting on her bare face like rocks. It's hard to find the bright red among all the pink.

What began as a regular talk, escalated into an argument, only to develop into a fight. A busted lip here, a shattered vase there. Screams and hollers of saturated wrath wrapped in a thin layer of fear. She flung a hook and he bruised her wrists. Tears salted his grimacing face—not so pretty now as he refused to glance at the mirror she smashed with a book—while he watched her vanish with nothing but her phone and pieces of her dignity. His validation stormed away into the lightning splitting the sky among pitch black clouds. His calls failed to make her ringtone sound ever again.

 **When Atsumu opens** the door of his apartment in the dead of the night, the last facial features he expects to see are [Name]'s. Eyes burning with unshed tears, tangled strands of hair sticking to her face, body quivering in the autumnal cold. He blinks owlishly at her in a fuzzy daze of stupefied surprise. Her teeth chatter under the influence of low temperatures and she wraps her soaked arms around herself, seeking warmth in the coldness of her wet clothes.

A grumble slips past her swollen lips as a gust of wind slaps her across the face—it cuts at her cheeks and nose. "Can I come in, Atsumu?" It's more a demand through gritted teeth rather than a polite request of permission. Her patience runs thin as she feels the blood in her veins cluster into ice.

Atsumu steps aside, his head jerking to shake himself out of his confusion. "What are'ya doin' here?" He spares a glance at the clock on his wall to find [Name] decided to visit him at almost 3 o'clock in the morning. His gaze searches for hers at the silence he receives; it's a sight he's never seen before. Worry opens up a hole in his stomach, anger curls his fingers into fists.

"Can I just get a towel? I'll explain later, I just wanna warm up now." Her voice becomes drained and dull in contrast to the orchestra of thunder and lightning she emerged from only seconds ago. She doesn't raise her volume to keep her weakness hidden. Atsumu nods stiffly before retreating to fetch a towel, which she accepts with a trembling hand and purple fingers.

He watches with tight lips as she musses her hair to flicker water out of it and taps the cotton against her face. A second passes, the towel pressed firmly against her eyes. Another second passes, a muffled sniffle cutting through the quiet of the room. One more second and [Name] crouches on the puddle of mud and rain she brought in with her, curling in on herself while screaming into the towel. Tears she was too proud to let flow freely now disappear into the fabric, her throat tears itself apart with every uneven break in her wails.

Atsumu clicks his tongue and sighs, eyes darting away from her wallowing. It's only to psych himself up so he can figure out a way to comfort someone that rarely needs it. He considers calling his brother, but ultimately scratches the option and instead settles his palm on [Name]'s back. "Go take a shower, I'll find ya some clothes."

It takes silence a moment to find the opportunity to claim the apartment for its own; it's dense and suffocating, seeping into corners untouched by light, filling crevices unknown to its resident, billowing curtains of a shut window. [Name]'s hum is almost imperceptible as it comes an eternity later, blocked by the towel she's too proud to let go of. When she unhides her face, cheeks red and an open wound bleeding into her mouth, she sniffles only once. She disappears into Atsumu's bathroom as an unnoticed drop of crimson stains the floor.


	2. “Kill yourself,” he answers, “Throw away your mind, fight the sun. I won’t say you’re lonely until the night is gone.”

**It will be** hard for Atsumu to ever forget the sight of a friend so disturbed. Her brows knitted into a seething glower, the corner of her mouth glowing purple, her upper lip swollen and dressed in specks of dried blood, her fingers numb and blue. [Name] trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. She rushed all the way from her apartment to his underneath the pouring rain, but she had made a detour to all layers of hell in the process.

Only when she's sitting at his couch, now composed and without any more tears, does he find out it was hell she was escaping from—not quite. There's a reason it's called _trouble in paradise_ , because as long as the rose-colored lenses don't budge, every day, every place, every moment is spent in paradise. Once trouble arises, the walls crumble down to give way to the hell that had always been hiding underneath.

Holding a mug of steaming coffee, donning a spare MSBY jersey—which she protested against, but he retaliated with _it'll comfort ya, dumbass_ —, [Name] winces when Atsumu dabs a cotton ball soaked in alcohol against the cut on her lip. He mutters curses and death threats meant for the bastard who dared raise his hand at her. His experienced hands used to taping fingers finish patching her up at the sight of her discomfort.

He crashes and sinks into his cushions with a dramatic sigh. Silence fills the spots between them to make a complete picture. Atsumu doesn't question, doesn't pry, doesn't press; he knows she will tell him after she organizes the events in her head. As she brings her mug to her mouth to take a sip, he catches sight of the purple fingerprints circling her wrist like a sickening bracelet. If he wasn't a public figure, he wouldn't waste another second in cracking open that guy's skull—on second thought, how expensive can a hitman be?

"You should've seen him," [Name] chuckles to herself, a sound surprising to Atsumu's ears as he'd grown to accept her dead tongue as a permanent. He raises a brow at her comment. She sets her coffee on the table and rubs the bruises to rid herself of the feeling of his violent grip. "I did quite the number on him. He was crying when I left."

"Didja use that hook I taught ya?"

"The one and only."

"Fuck yeah." He presents his open palm to her and she stretches to high-five him. Their individual laughters flow into the air to merge together, forcing the silence to bid its final goodbye for the night.

[Name] slams her head on the cushion behind her, eyes squinting at the blinding brightness from the ceiling. She sighs, "It was wild." Atsumu understands she'll explain only what she can recall. One's vision is unfortunately compromised in the midst of a tempest. "I got fed up with him taking me out on dates to go out with himself. I wanted to talk to him about it, and before I knew it, we were yelling at each other." She purses her lips as if she were bracing herself, flinching at the pulsating pain of her busted lip. "Then he threw a punch," she breathes out.

"Always knew he was a jackass."

"Atsumu, you're not helping."

His shoulders jump in a sharp shrug. "Ain't tryna. I told ya the scrub was bad news."

"You sure did. But it was high-school and you were… _you_."

Atsumu only hums in response. He never entertained the idea of a high-school sweetheart, going as far as to berate anyone—namely [Name]—who actually indulged in love built upon hormones. "Whatcha do after that?"

"Panic. I went at him with that move you taught me, he grabbed my wrists, bawling that I forgive him, that he didn't mean it, that he didn't know what got over him. I smashed a vase, a mirror, and probably something else, I don't know."

"And why'd ya come here?"

"I didn't know where else to go." She hears him inhale to retaliate with one of those snarky remarks that are practically his mother tongue after so many years of practice. She decides Atsumu is not someone she's willing to throw books at, nor does she want to. Before he can utter out a single letter, she blurts out, "What do I do now?"

His brows rise in surprise. [Name] asking _him_ for advice is a first, if anything. She never listened when he offered it for free over Osamu's bento boxes and an energy bar she bought from the vending machine. She would stick her tongue out at him when her boyfriend showed up at the door, opening his arms up for her. _I don't trust him_ , he would grumble between a mouthful of rice. She would snort, _I don't trust you_ , before blindly embracing a walking death threat.

Five years and she hasn't changed a bit. From the length of her hair, to the boring clothes she wears. Pulling the pink wax out of her ears only when she knows she'll like what someone will tell her. She covers her eyes to sights she doesn't want to see, she covers her ears to facts she doesn't want to hear, she covers her mouth to feelings she doesn't want to speak. Anchoring herself to a man during a rush of youthful highs was only another way for her to lie to herself.

"D'ya trust me now?" Atsumu asks in a whisper.

She brings her head back to its original position, her bones popping and kinks disappearing. Her eyes find his in a blank stare he mirrors. "I gotta. You're the only thing I have left."

"I know whatcha should do."

"I'm all ears."

He's heard that before. When she says she's all ears, but she doesn't hear a sound.

"Kill yourself."

But today she listens.


	3. A good night to a friend, but a farewell to the empty shell in the mirror that will crumble by tomorrow

**"Are you sure** about this?"

"'Round sixty percent."

"Fuck." Music fills the bathroom they both stand in, a playlist he found years ago and she was the first person he showed it to. [Name] fills her lungs with air, pretending it's the courage she needs to face this new fear. "Okay, do it."

"Three, two—"

Blood flows as she grits her teeth; not from a wound or a punch Atsumu _didn't mean_ , but from a wanted puncture improvised with a safety clip, symbolizing the death of a self to make room for a new one. She purses her lips and whines at the burning of rivers of warm crimson trailing from the upper cartilage of her ear and dripping to the floor. Atsumu presses a cotton ball soaking with alcohol to the open flesh, guiding [Name]'s hand to hold it despite the pain.

"Cool, lemme do the other." It's more a light-hearted announcement rather than a request of permission. He turns her face so her ear is basking in light and the coldness of the safety pin elicits a startled flinch from her. "Three, two—" Atsumu chuckles when he doesn't reach _one_ , the pointed metal piercing through [Name]'s skin with ease.

She wipes both ears clean of blood and uses her warm fingers to hook the steel hoops Atsumu had in the depth of his drawers. The image the mirror reflects back is that of a human coming to life piece by piece. It takes nine months for a baby to form completely; it takes a second to kill oneself; it's an indeterminate process to come back to life. She won't know she's complete until she decides to kill herself again.

The buzzing of Atsumu's hair clipper tugs her out of her own head—or whatever is left of it. He positions her head staring straight ahead, looking into the mirror as he maps out all the different ways he can shoot bullets into her temples or slice her neck wide open. "How 'bout I line it with yer brows?" His nail traces a separation on her scalp, pulling two sections of her hair away from each other.

"Yours is lower," she points out, her eyes scanning over his undercut in the mirror.

"That's a no?"

"Go for it."

Tying the hair he's allowing her to keep, strands of strong roots and split ends flutter down like every tear not worth shedding, every tear she swears not to shed again. A weight disappears not only from her head and shoulders, but also from her chest. Her body is lighter as she buries pieces of her older self; her mistakes and good deeds, her choices and decisions never made, her lies and volatile truths.

She's content with letting Atsumu be the one to end her life. He's someone that kills himself on a daily basis, never glancing back at the pile of corpses and empty carcasses of his old self. Someone that changes every single day, with or without fear of choosing a new life every time. He wakes up a clean slate and crashes into bed with bleeding wrists. She wants to leave all the nonsense running through her mind to someone like him.

Atsumu yawns while flicking off his clipper. He pats [Name]'s shoulders free of stray hair before pushing her out the door. "We'll finish tomorrow. Crash on the couch, I dunno."

"Hospitality, my favorite." Traces of a rotting corpse litter the tiles of his bathroom as he guides her away to her temporary bed. Their exhausted chuckles mix with the last beats of the song currently playing, before Atsumu shuts his phone off and leaves only laughter. [Name] calls out to him before he vanishes into his room and he meets her gaze with a raised brow. "Thanks for helping me kill myself." Her busted lip curls into a pleased simper built with fading memories.

"Anytime, [Name]. Night."

"Good night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont remember what this was inspired by or if it was an idea of mine. i wrote in on a whim in the span of eight hours. thanks for reading, have a good day


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